60 Sunday Poems to Relax and Retrospect

Sunday is a day of relaxation, reflection, and rejuvenation.

In this overview, we will explore a collection of Sunday poems that capture the essence of this special day.

From famous poems about Sunday that defeated time, to funny and inspirational poems that offer a fresh perspective, there is something for everyone.

Whether you’re looking for short or long poems, rhyming or non-rhyming, for adults or children, we have it all.

So sit back, relax, and let these Sunday poems transport you to a place of tranquility and introspection.

Famous Sunday Poems

The beauty and tranquility of Sunday have inspired many poets over the years, and in this section, we will explore some of the most famous poems about Sunday. These poems capture the essence of this special day and remind us of the importance of rest, reflection, and renewal.

1. Sunday

       by Misty Meadows

Sundays for me, are the top edge of
A skyscraper, that I dare to tiptoe
Off of and come rushing down its
Like those pennies they say can put
A hole in your head if it hits you.
I don’t wanna be the hole in your head.
I wanna be the dent in the concrete,
On Sundays.
On Sundays, I wanna be the one that
Sleeps under bridges in a careless
City because on Sundays I am just
As careless and this is all too much for
Me. On Sundays,
I throw in the towel because the
Last match of the week has left me
And I am not Cassius Clay.
I am more like the Sunday papers,
Crumpled up and expected to recycle
And after being reduced to nothing week
After week, Sundays feel like death.

2. Sunday Tears

       by Lucie Elizabeth Ann Wesson

Sunday Tears,
that is what Sundays are for,
Sunday tears that fall
from my eyes,

Sunday tears
make me want to die,
Sunday tears that break my heart,
that is because we are no more,
Sundays have broken my heart
into parts, because Sundays
have made us depart

Sundays are no longer special to me,
they make me think of you and me,
and that you are not here with me,
I much prefer to Monday morning,
maybe I can get through the week
without weekday tears, but when
Sunday comes again I break down
with Sunday tears.

3. Sundays

       by Dr. Peter Lim

Sundays–none would see me
at that corner of the distant park
seated on a shaking wooden chair
under the same, bald and desolate tree–

Sundays (provided they don’t rain)
I don’t listen to the radio or watch TV
a notebook or a volume of Keats on my lap
I’ll be alone in my chosen sanctuary-

Sundays (the faithful win me
over– hearts have to be comforted–verily)
I take leave of wearisome life and society
with only me as company–

Sundays–time for reflection
from banal ties I set myself free
the toxic air of the public-square
I shun away—nature is harmony–

Sundays—age is sober and looks back
without rancour but with tranquillity
there were mistakes, harshness and folly
hidden pages from an old book reopened by memory-

Sundays–one follow another–how many
would (I wonder) still welcome me?
the young have their lush songs to sing
their most treasured dreams are yet to be-

This is Sunday–the sky is blue and pretty
happy kids are at frolic in the inviting green field
life in all its facets I’ve known and experienced
in this simple poem I’ve written my life-history.

4. Some keep the Sabbath Going to Church

       by Emily Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church
I keep it, staying at Home
With a Bobolink for a Chorister
And an Orchard, for a Dome

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice
I, just wear my Wings
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last
I’m going, all along.

5. A Rainy Sunday

       by Ruby Archer

I love a rainy Sunday,
With all the world away;
The cozy hearth intensified
By gloom of outer day.
In silken gown fantastic,
I let my hair go free,
And idle in and out of books,
Or weave a melody.
The rain beyond the window
Chants on in monotone;
I muse among my household gods,
And laugh—to be alone.
The family is drowsy,
The very cat asleep;
And naught comes nigh my revery,
Growing in silence deep.
My books are dear companions,
My pictures well-loved friends,
My brown divan with Orient grace
A dreamy languor lends.
Come often, rainy Sundays,
Forbidding me to roam—
Come often, shut the world without,
And me within my home.

6. Those Winter Sundays

       by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

7. On Sundays

       by Willie Perdomo

On Sundays we composed our own music.

Tapped a nickel against a mailbox,
pounded the wall with the heel of our
palms, and sought a demo-type sound.

Sundays were the sound of a tobacco patch crashing on the tip
of a boot.
The nimbus of gospel & game rejoicing at the feet of laughter
& loot.

Saint Martin held us down in word if not in deed.
Santa Barbara held us down in word if not in need.
San Lazaro held us down in pocket if not in feed.

On Sundays, number slips trickled from Maxi’s
sleeves, & dream books slept on discount racks.

Sundays were for our best clothes, which meant that every day
was Sunday.

Two birds sat on a crucifix, and grandma’s church
hat was damn near auctioned at the Player’s Ball.

Sundays were for sonnets & aunties, bonnets & Bibles, a
mourning dove nesting near your window guard, a rumor
upgraded to libel, making babies to a faint chirp & being
late to your Confirmation.
Everything damn near legal was damn near closed on Sunday.

On Sundays, we had to give up a piece of our burning.

8. Untaxed

       by Pradip Chattopadhyay

Didn’t I hear you say the lawn I would mow?
Sundays come and Sundays go.

Grasses are taller so are the ****
Season is going where’s the flower seed?

Words aren’t taxed you use them free
Said this Sunday you would clean the chimney.

Wash the toilet scrub clean the commode
Sundays come piles up workload.

Lot of things to mend lots to replace
Why Sundays trudge in leisurely pace?

Why the bed conspires the morn breathes chill
Why must I lie back to get the Sunday feel?

Why Sunday is one day and not a whole week
Comes up the Monday devilish and bleak!

Sundays will come and Sundays will go
*As for my work only a poem or two to show!

9. Sundays

       by Brendan Thomas

Sundays are lonely now
Just me and my dog
Don’t go to church anymore
Not sure What I believe

At least Monday brings work
Keep my mind occupied
Keep the darkness at bay
At least till Friday

Five short days
Where I’m needed
Where I need to be
Friday will come, and I’ll pray for next week

Funny Sunday Poems

Laughter is so much fun, and in this section, we will explore some interesting poems about Sunday that offer a lighthearted take on this day of rest. These poems will bring a smile to your face and help you see the lighter side of life.

1. Bloody Sundays

       by Rico Leffanta

A ghoul on a stool made him drool
So the vampire skipped Sunday School
The B-positive queue
Was too long to pursue
At the Blood Bank in Liverpool!

2. Sunday-A Fun Day

       by Bhupendra Swarnakar

Still on bed, with no one to eat head
It’s already 9 o’clock, so today no morning walk
It’s for me to sleep as much I can, not because I am a man
But because 6 days later it re-arrived ‘the Sunday-a fun day’
Today I’ll sing and dance, with enjoyment at glance
I’ll run, hop, play as I used to do in my childish day
When I’d also yak for long hours, with my ally about super cars
On this very special day ‘the Sunday-a fun day’
Give me this day again if you can lend, this lovely weekend
Where my hopes are high on peak at this first day of week
May all days be like it, where with work I can relax and sit
Lastly to my friends, family and foes I wish ‘this Sunday-a fun day’

3. Lucy Furr’s Sunday

       by Rico Leffanta

On Sundays, the preachers will preach
And Sunday School Teachers will teach
If that does not grate
The Collection Plate
Will tempt everyone to the beach!

4. Lei Day

       by Rico Leffanta

Mum sent me off to Sunday School
To learn about the Golden Rule
But Satan said,
“Look!  Ilene’s shed!
What shall we do for May Day Fool?”

5. Crustfallen

       by Rico Leffanta

The Sunday School teacher May Crow
Wanted children their God to know
Alas her repast
Created a blast
That caused them to puke domino

6. Sunday’s Winter Breakfast

       by Sherry Anne

beyond a white lace tablecloth
set with Sunday’s best
pristine frosty white winter snow
peeps through the window pane
as if my breakfast spread
floats on a bed of ice
I breathe in the beauty
of Sunday’s wintry feast

soft pancakes and juicy raspberries
as warm as they would be in the sun
maple syrup threaded on top
the aroma of wood-fire
roasted coffee filling my senses
home-made jams
of wild plum and strawberry fun
sit like pretty maids in a row
cream cheese and light fluffy crepes

eyes tasting the show
basking in the ease of Sunday
I smile soaking in the moment.

Inspirational Sunday Poems

Sunday is a day of reflection and renewal, and in this section, we will explore some inspirational poems about Sunday that offer guidance and inspiration for the week ahead. These poems will lift your spirits and help you find the motivation to pursue your dreams and goals.

1. Week’s Perimeter

       by Tris-Etse

The brink of starting again,
the repetitive sludge of days
which will slur together, I live
through Sunday with eyes glazed.
A time to rest while awaiting
the stress to begin.
How to find that balance of
relaxation and anticipation?

Well, I’ll pet my dog, and I’ll
read a book. Perhaps dance in
the kitchen with my sister.
Finish off a movie about romance.

That’s Sunday to me, the no man’s land
where I’ll tiptoe the week’s perimeter.
An attempt at tranquility while ignoring
Monday prodding at me like a picador.

2. Sunday Flow

       by Sherry Anne

Sunday, frivolous and lazy
I give myself permission
to let the day unfold as it may
revelling in the freedom of my will

no pattern on Sundays
I could stay in bed
reading Gibran, lost in his spell
no rhyme either
I could cook a fancy roast duck feast
or choose peanut butter and jelly instead

no children’s laughter or husband’s natter
could be sad and lonely
but I choose to be grateful for my lot
a mental freedom I assign to Sundays
having choice
a choice to go with my flow

3. Sunday

       by Anais V

Let’s pretend Sundays last forever
and spend hours drowsing in the sun.
Let stress slowly fade, like a passing parade
and our cares will seem light as feathers.

I hear clouds still collage on blue canvas,
and deciduous leaves turned bright colors
we’ll picnic, we’ll laugh, and lay in the grass
and this Sunday will outshine all the others.

4. Sunday Spider

       by C. J. Krieger

A gazing spider on my window
Dangling precariously by a thread
Watched me as I sipped my coffee
Listening to the words I said

It was a country conversation
In Ulster county by the lake
He visits every other Sunday
Dropping by after I wake

Now me… I’m quite the morning talker
He always lets me chatter on
Occasionally dropping on the counter
And when I’m done he moves along

Now I’m no fool, at least I hope not
I know that spiders can’t be friends
But since there is no one to talk to
The least I can do is pretend

5. Sonnet to a Sunday Ritual

       by Arthur May

The pious Christians don their Sunday best
And make their way religiously to church
To spread the word is every Christian’s quest
So speaks the holy man upon his perch

And now join hands in love and charity
To praise the Lord and God high up above
Although it’s rather hard for us to see
The presence of our sacred holy dove

We say a prayer for those that go without
For sinners that don’t share the faith we hold
With joy this congregation so devout
Reach out to all those dying in the cold

Once back home you discard your Sunday dress
Eat Yorkshire and roast beef in your string vest

Short Sunday Poems

Sometimes, less is more, and in this section, we will explore some short poetries about Sunday that capture the essence of this special day in just a few lines. These poems are perfect for a quick moment of reflection or to share on social media.

1. Sundays

       by Gabe Calvert

This day
is about leaves.

And I’m with a full asthray
missing you
in the pages
of despair.

2. Sundays

       by Shani

Sunny Sundays
When the day feels so peaceful
Relaxing, and surprising
Full of happiness
The gray laziness creeps up on me
and I don’t care
Bright, yellow sunlight pouring through the thin white curtain
Greeting our eyes
As we awake into the wonderful Sunday

3. Wine-Soaked Sundays

       by Healy Fallon

Wine-soaked sundays
what a time to lounge

Wine-soaked sundays,
full of cheese and pearls

Wine-soaked sundays,
what an hour to cackle!

Wine-soaked sundays,
when the obligations melt

Wine-soaked sundays,
when we are softly raw

Wine-soaked sundays,
when ladies conduct “leisure”

Wine soaked sundays,
where the smiles conceal nothing

4. Sundays

       by Ron Gavalik

In our youths
Sundays were dreaded
We mourned the death
of weekends
Now, on Sundays
we reflect, quiet
on the continual

5. Sundays Come and Sundays Go

       by Lucie Elizabeth Ann Wesson

Sundays come and Sundays goes
Monday follows Sundays,
Monday brings with it a brand new week,
Sometimes Monday brings with it rain.

Mondays sometimes has sunny days,
The sun is nice and bright,
Autumn brings with it Indian Summers,
warm days and cooler nights.

I hear the thunderstorms come through,
It cools off all the week,
It makes it a lot more comfortable
for everyone to sleep.

6. Sundays

       by Samantha

Sundays are my favourite days,
Beirut mornings to coax a smile
Get drunk and dressed with
Mr. Vernon; light a cigarette
And laugh at the irony

This Sunday though,
I am in a sundaze;
with no full moon to look upon
And only a mournful quarter
rotted with black cloud

7. Sundays

       by Bozhidar Pangelov

in rains
forgotten fragrance
and those non-grown up dreams
her hand

Sunday rains

like a faraway

Long Sunday Poems

These long poetries about Sunday are perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon when you have time to savor the beauty of language and imagery.

1. Sunday

       by George Herbert

O day most calm, most bright
The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,
Th’endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care’s balm and bay:
The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The worky-days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose to look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,
On which heav’n’s palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God’s rich garden: that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man’s life,
Threaded together on time’s string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven’s gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his:
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at his passion
Did th’earth and all things with it move.
As Samson bore the doors away,
Christ’s hands, though nail’d, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,
Whose drops of bloud paid the full price,
That was requir’d to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:
And where the weekdays trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from sev’n to sev’n,
Till that we both, being toss’d from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav’n!

2. The Stranger

       by Robert G

hollow now my world has grown
with age that time has ****** on me.
from carefree childhood days i’d known,
from days of climbing in a tree.

from summer sunlit mornings
from sundays in the park.
i didn’t see time’s warnings
or see the sun grow dark.

i didn’t see the stranger
who followed me one day.
i didn’t sense the danger
as i went off to play.

with eager youth i left from home
the world was my shell.
i didn’t see the stranger
who’d lead me to my hell.

i’d lifted weights with youthful ease
these weights now known as life.
did what i wanted as i pleased;
i took myself a wife.

and with my wife we had a child
we had a baby boy.
with carefree sundays in the park
he filled our lives with joy.

we watched his life as he grew strong
’til off to war he went.
he told his mom, “it won’t be long
until my journey’s spent.”

and as his ship pulled from the pier
i saw the stranger’s face.
with deep set eyes he blankly starred,
he seemed so out of place.

i felt as if i’d known this man
had known him all my life.
in parks where as a youth i ran
and when i met my wife.

it wasn’t long our son had gone
my wife had passed away.
and in the war he followed her
just six months to the day.

old and lonely now i sit
and watch the children play.
on carefree sundays in the park
until that final day.

a day in which the stranger comes
and takes me to my rest.
to my loving wife and son
upon my final breath.

3. Those Sundays in Winter

       by Devashish Kumar

It is another Sunday in the winter.
I am properly tucked in my quilt.
I browse through the top headlines of the hour.
It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit
all ideas of leaving my quilt.

Sundays in winter were my favourite days
and letting me play on Sundays my cookies
for reading properly for six days.
Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories,
are some of my best memories.

Saturdays were the days of preparation.
Arranging bats, *****, and bicycles, at least, four,
deciding time and venue for the action,
making strategies to sail us ashore-
were some important tasks to be completed before.

I used to sleep a bit early after setting
up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few,
to ensure I woke up in the morning.
and then I would make a few
calls to wake up the crew. 

Though while gearing up,
I would move as little as possible
my Mom would always wake up
and then I had to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible
to sick and sick made you feeble.

Before I could leave home, I had
to close the door as slowly as possible
because I didn’t want to wake up Dad
for he was predictably unpredictable
and it was too risky a gamble.

We dared not look into uncles ‘n aunties’
eyes while asking our friends to come to play
for their looks could terrorize
anyone. We’d then go to the decided play-
ground on the shared bicycles without delay.

Quarrels to bat at the top,
the endless running around to save a few runs,
‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop,
heated discussions on run-outs-
these memories still give me goose bumps.

The celebrations after winning the matches and
blaming each other for losing were
the customs of the day and
mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after-
noon nap – a perfect finish for a day to remember.

A lifetime has gone by
since we last played together
and bade each other goodbye
but those memories still lurking somewhere
inside our brains adhere us together.
I usually do not write about myself or my memories, which makes it special. Those days are some of my best memories. And in a cricket crazy country like ours, many definitely have similar memories.

4. Cow on the Lam

       by Don Bouchard

Sundays on the ranch are somethin’,
Just after morning chores are done,
I head up to the house on a dead run,
I’ve called the herd and put the buckets out,
Fed the chickens, called the horse, “Old Son,”
Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun;
Old dog is baying loud to add some fun….

Meanwhile, at the house,
The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out,
When I come in, they clear the bathroom out,
So I can get a shave and morning shower,
And off we’ll head to church in half an hour.

Or so we think….
It’s then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow’s swinging by,
Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder,
“She’s headed north toward town!” he chortles mirth,
“Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!” I mutter.

All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap,
We pile in the truck to try and get her back….
We have a chance if we can turn her ’round above the hill….
Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill?
A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid,
Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd,
Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree,
And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.

5. There’s Only So Many Sundays

       by Anonymous

I could go and open that Bible on my shelf
But I don’t mind the coping
I’ll keep these troubles to myself
Troubled nights are longer
Waning desperately
These blues are getting stronger
And they won’t let me be

There’s a church house over yonder
Out past the winding bend
For ne’er-do-wells and lesser men
Where they say freedom lives apart from sin
You can die there too and live again

Should have changed my ways
Released my pride before the slide

But there’s only so many Sundays
Always six days ahead or six days behind
When you’re serving yourself faith is harder to find
And after the fall you’re just too weary to climb
There’s only so many Sundays
With six days ahead and six days behind

I don’t know nothin’ of forgiveness or hope
But I know a little somethin’
About the end of a rope
I can take this pain
Embrace it endlessly
Never mind the rain
It keeps me company

There’s a church house over yonder
Out past the winding bend
For ne’er-do-wells and lesser men
Where they say freedom lives apart from sin
You can die there too and live again

Should have changed my ways
Released my pride before the slide

But there’s only so many Sundays
Always six days ahead or six days behind
When you’re serving yourself faith is harder to find
And after the fall you’re just too weary to climb
There’s only so many Sundays
With six days ahead and six days behind

Sunday Poems That Rhyme

Rhyme can add a musical quality to poetry, and in this section, we will explore some poems about Sunday with rhyming words that use rhyme to create a playful and lyrical quality. These poems are perfect for reading aloud or for sharing with children.

1. Sunday

       by Tisham Dhar

Soon suddenly Sunday
The week is all over
It started which day?
Did the sun hover?

2. Sundays are for Poetry

       by A Thomas Hawkins

Sundays are for poetry
it’s just the way it is
The fact that I should mow the lawn
doesn’t get me in a tiz

And sure I could shingle the shed
but it ain’t fell down yet
and besides so what if it rains
things’ll just get a little wet.

And I could be stripping paint
hanging wallpaper and doors
but quite frankly I dont want to
There’s a reason they’re called chores

No I’d much rather be sat here
with my laptop on my knee
sharing the thoughts within my head
for everyone to see.

Because Sundays are for poetry
that’s just the way it is
perhaps I should go write that down
into a poem such as this

3. Sabbath

       by Andrew John

His nails will dig into his palms;
they do that kind of thing.
It’s only when he’s hearing psalms,
and hearing others sing.

“Oh why, dear God?” he says on Sunday,
knowing there’s no lord.
“I do so wish to get to Monday,
feel no longer bored.”

Yet he will know, when starting Monday,
working now for six,
the seventh day will be a Sunday –
moods are such a mix.

He therefore holds no sabbath dear
(and nails will pierce the palms);
he’s far from cheer, and feels the fear
he’ll hear those bloody psalms.

4. A Sunday Song

       by Amos Russel Wells

A hush is in the shining sky,
A hush is on the golden lands.
O God on high,
Fair Nature folds her hands.
A hymn is in the heart of man,
High praises jubilant and free.
Great Artisan,
Thy creatures worship Thee.
From quiet fanes where men have trod
Through centuries of holy ways.
Our Father’s God,
Their children sing Thy praise.
And here in my poor life, above
The dally turmoil harsh and grim,
O God of love.
Hear Thou my Sunday hymn.

5. The Lord’s Amber Day

       by Violetta

Cloudless skies were clear as the purest sapphires,
And all about was budding, fulfilling secret desires,
Spring was peeking out, with its many-colored eyes,
On sweet saffron Sunday, the day of love’s surprise!

Glittery sunshine radiance, poured in from the east,
And in the orange shadows of later, they had a feast,
Red cardinal was singing, in his pine green mansion,
And full blooms bounced in plum and cream fashion.

6. It’s Sunday

       by Anais Vionet

Sunday’s an auspicious day to suggest
that you, as a student, take a recess
In order to try and decompress
from our studying and stress

Now, of course, if you’re so possessed
or some might even say obsessed
you could study for a test
we all want to do our best
but some work habits can oppress
and leave one all depressed

Just take a needed rest
and if your needs are unaddressed
get caressed when you’re undressed
some would have that thought suppressed
or simply left it unexpressed
but under oath I would attest
and to a priest I have confessed
all my roommates acquiesced
that for relaxation it’s the best
and quickest way to get unstressed

there are a hundred things I could suggest
you type “A”s tend to make everything a contest
in this, there are no professors for you to impress
this isn’t a competitive, academic trap, trick or jest
I just know that, on Monday, this girl will be refreshed

Sunday Poems for Children

These Sunday poems for kids are fun, playful, and educational, and they will help children appreciate the beauty of language and the importance of taking time to rest and reflect.

1. Sunday School

       by Lewis Nyaga

Smug little faces
Oily little faces
Sunday best clad
Little children
Listen to the old
Time tested
Tired preacher
Accepting it all
They have trouble
Thou swallowing
Accepting he had
To be nailed for
Their petty little sin

2. Sunday Sandy Skips Around

       by Kenn Nesbitt

Sunday Sandy skips around.
Monday Sandy runs.
Tuesday she takes pictures.
Wednesday she makes buns.
Thursday Sandy chases chickens.
Friday chases sheep.
Saturday she spends the day
in bed and fast asleep.

3. Sunday Looks

       by Jerrell Jones

In stuffy days when I would dress to please
And barter for belonging with a look,
In fussy days when I would don a thought
To hide a naked need and make it prim–
I could have healed myself from expectations,
Remembering how God left Sunday school
With me when I was five, and how we both
Played in the mud and soiled our special clothes.

4. Snowy Sunday

       by Khushi

The world is spinning
round and round
while snowflakes are falling,
bound for the ground.

Children wait for their parents
and show they can obey.
There’s the great HOORAY
as they sleigh.

They come back inside,
their faces so red.
Quickly they’ve spied
the hot chocolate ahead.

5. Sunday’s Child

       by Kenneth R Jenkins

Monday’s child raised up in the morning
Away to school for another day.
Tuesday child makes ready for another day,
Making the best of what that may come their way.
Wednesday’s child in the middle of
Everything work, rest and prayer.
Thursday’s child winding down another week,
Praying for another week soon.
Friday’s child no more for them
Living for the weekend for time and fun.
Saturday’s child works in the yard
And around the house helping mother today
But it’s Sunday’s child that gets up
Early to Sunday School and
Morning worship for praise- –
That’s Sunday’s child.

6. Teach Children to Love

       by Arturo Michael

At Sunday school
Don’t break the rules
Sabbath ends on Saturday

Church is out
Devils sprout
In play grounds children stray

Void of God
A new Dollar Lord
They learn the prayers of hate

Emotional bullets
Shatter innocent hearts
Sad days of school shootings

Sunday Poems about Morning

Morning is a special time of day, and in this section, we will explore some Sunday morning poems that capture the beauty and tranquility of this time. These poems will inspire you to appreciate the beauty of the natural world and the promise of a new day.

1. Sunday Morning

       by Louis Macneice

Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man’s heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate’s great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,

And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.

But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls’ mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.

2. Sunday Morning

       by Ruby Archer

How sweet to wait within a holy place
The hour of song and prayer,
To yield the heart unto a spell of grace,
Serenely brooding like a presence there.
The hymns that live within the organ’s heart,
Flow silent o’er the soul;
Unsounded echoes from the memory start,
Like mystic writing from an angel’s scroll.

3. Good Sunday Morning

       by Michael P. McParland

Good Sunday morning my beautiful one
and millions of kisses and hugs to you
to start this beautiful day of true love
that exists between you and me.
We’re best friends and true loves,
the greatest gift and blessing
from God anyone can receive.
Good Sunday morning to you my sweet Kira
I love you so very much.

What would be better than A Sunday morning snuggle
on the couch while we drink our coffee and wake up.
I like mine black as you know and sadly
how you like yours is one of those few
little things that right now I do not,
but when we’re together again I will learn
and I’d have you sit on the couch curled up in our blanket
while I got it all ready for us.
Then we could snuggle for the early hours
while we just snuggle away and drink the delicious
coffee that you buy.

A good Sunday morning to you my beautiful one
and as the day went on there’s so much fun we could have.
Even though I’m not a big NFL fan I know you like it
and I still have the Browns.
So if you wanted to watch I would sit there with you
and cheer your teams on just with me
you do for my Ohio State teams.
Just as long as I’m spending time with my one
I’ll be the happiest man alive my sweet dear,
as long as I’m with you I’ll be fulfilled.
A good Sunday morning my Kira
your Michael so deeply loves you.

As the day went on from there we
could sit and read to each other from something
as a couple we’ve picked.
On my kindle there’s over a thousand books,
we would find something for sure.
I just want to sit with you and to get lost into
a good story together would be the perfect time.
Then what part we read afterwords,
what we thought and what we felt,
I always love to know what you think and feel
my sweet one as your take is always so unique.
A sweet Sunday with Kira would be so truly great.

A good Sunday morning to you my sweet one
and it will be a beautiful day,
for as it goes on I’ll write you many poems.
A few more like this and as other ideas come to me,
I love you Kira and I am with you everyday
hand in hand holding you close
giving sweet kisses to fill you up
with all of my sweet loving warmth.
Close your sweet eyes and feel me so close
and see my loving looks and smile just for you.
I love you Kira and have a great day,
your Michael is thinking of and sending his love to you.

4. Sundays are Sweet

       by Ani

Its sunday morning
My favourite day of the week
When everything is so perfect
And feels so warm, fuzzy and sweet

I always say I’ll head to church
I never go so far
‘Cause sweet heavenly slumber
Is all I long for, I just want more

Later in the day my tumy starts to turn
As I realise tomorrow is yet another dawn
They require hard work and focus
Both of which I’ve run out.

Sundays are sweet
But tomorrow I have to work to meet.

5. Sunday Morning

       by Wallace Stevens


Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.


Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.


She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.


She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.


Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.


Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.


She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

6. Sunday Morning

       by Maya Marshall

Hunger and the radio call us to the kitchenette.
Mama and that nasty-ass Bill at the table with paring knife
and lime sipping gin already.
Mama say, “Go ’head. Show Bill what all you can do.”
Mama and that nasty-ass Bill at the table watch me drop
my hip like little Sally Walker.
Mama say, “Go ’head, show Bill what all you can do.”
Twist and twirl. Blossoming at ten, I can tear.
Watch me drop my hip like little Sally Walker with a paring
knife and lime. Watch me twist and twirl in time. Blossom, tear.
Hunger and the radio call us to the kitchenette.

7. Sunday Mornings

       by O.B. Thompson

Entwined in exquisite solitude;
crisp golden sheets
encase two precisely pieced bodies
exploring their souls together,
on this perfect Sunday morning.

Sun warms the toes
and sparks between lips warm the heart,
the smell of black coffee drifts in;
but nobody will leave their bed,
on this perfect Sunday morning.

Lazy lovers lie together,
on this perfect Sunday morning.

Sunday Poems about Evening

As the day winds down, Sunday offers a time of reflection and relaxation. In this section, we will explore some Sunday evening poems about the evening that capture the beauty and tranquility of this special time.

1. Sunday Evening

       by Jan Oskar Hansen

It is getting dark but in the west the sky is pink
The setting sun is beautiful to look at
I sit outside the church waiting for someone
For whom the mass is important, a father is coming
Out with his little daughter, she couldn`t sit still
She sees the sky and asks her father why the sky is
Like this, he says something, and she giggles
It is six o`clock more people are coming out of church
A couple of beggars wait by the door
And there she is her African face smiles she wears
Bright colours as always
I start the car, and we drive home in good silence

2. Piano

       by D. H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

3. Sunday Evening in Each Other’s Arms

       by Michael P. McParland

It’s Sunday evening my sweet love
and after a wonderfully refreshing shower
I couldn’t help but lay down to relax
for just a short bit.
I’m still unsure of just how my stomach
will stand up but I plan to get up
and eat just a little something
and I so wish you were here to join me
and hold each other through this evening.

A sweet Sunday evening in each other’s arms
snuggling and smiling as we watched a movie.
I’m still feeling very emotional
and if I have any more tears to let go
I wish I was with you my loving lady
to cry on your shoulder.
A sweet Sunday evening with my beautiful lady
is what my aching heart wants and longs for.
To be snuggling with my darling Kira.

Then later no matter how my stomach
would be feeling I’d want to lay down on the couch
and rest my head on your lap while you read to me,
be it from our book or your gorgeous work
to just lay there relaxing and hearing your voice
is what my most beautiful dreams are made of.
Thank you sweet Kira for your Angelic heart,
love, and entire being.
I would give anything to be spending
a sweet Sunday evening in the arms of my beautiful Kira.

You truly are my true love and only one,
I send you sweet kisses of very deep love and caring.
Just feel me there in spirit beside you
saying Kira I am your Michael and my heart and soul
will forever be yours because you are the greatest.
You are my Queen and most sacred Angel.
I’ll be dreaming of you as I go about my evening
and thinking of a beautiful one with you.
I love you Kira and you truly are so very magical,
I adore you my darling you will forever be
the only woman I’ll ever love.

4. Sunday Evening

       by Sonia

Sunday evening
is a quiet time for me
as I stretch on my easy chair
and take a nap to rest my brain
until my muse insists waking me
to write a poem for a contest,
I pretend I am in a solid sleep,
ignoring that nagging voice
in between loud snores until
I see a string of z’s parade
before my eyes by my mighty muse.

5. Sunday Evening Blues

       by Paul Latham

Same old rooms, day after day,
Nothing seems to change at pace, except my mindset for the day.
Nothing happens blatant or apparent,
Just me, same old me, sitting here tapping.

Tapping my thoughts as the moments pass,
Nothing happens, time just flying past.

Passing moments just flying by, ideas inspired by body and mind.
Nothing happens still, just me alone not mad or ill.

Alone I sit, but I feel so alive, I’m not alone at all, I have my body and mind.

And still time goes by, nothing strange, weird or divine,
As time continues to pass me by.

As I contemplate my day, I feel joy and glee, how I wish it would stay.
But stay it will, it exists within; time will pass it’s never ill.

Time goes by,
Time flying by,
Time for work and nothing is fine.

6. Sunday

       by Cecily Parks

So this is Sunday evening
under the live oak behind the kitchen
where the Rose of Sharon
spills purple tea onto the grass,
the yellow bells sound yellow alarms
from tall stalks, and the sunflowers peep
over the fence into the street
where car tires lap at the pavement
and walkers and joggers and dogs and strollers
pass. Our weeping
persimmon makes a small room
under its branches that children
younger than mine could inhabit
for an afternoon. Squirrels chase
each other up the live oak trunk, scratching
the bark. Crape myrtle, peach, plum:
our tiny arboretum.
We had another tree that had room 
for two girls to sit in it, but the winter freeze
killed it. Gone, too, 
the neighbor whose name I never learned
who yelled at speeding cars in her front yard
wearing only a long t-shirt and underwear
with her ageless legs for all to see,
especially me, from my kitchen, as I waited then,
as I wait now, for my daughters’ tears
to come the way they do every Sunday evening
because we cut down their climbing tree
and tomorrow is a school day, and they don’t care
about the sky dropping pink and orange curtains
around the neighbor’s house, ending an opera
about a house that held a woman’s life
that some tomorrow will scrape down.

Happy Sunday Poems

Finally, we have a selection of happy Sunday poems that capture the joy and beauty of this special day. These poems will lift your spirits, inspire you, and remind you of the simple pleasures of life.

1. Happy Sunday

       by Sylvia Frances Chan

Humming my Sunday hymns
this is a ray of touch
this much
if you can feel so much
my lively touch
in this still covid-19 irony
this is really not my Sunday Symphony
nor my Sunday hymn
but just a straightforward
scream that springs from my
serving memory
love to write with my words what I really mean
I love to serve God on Sunday
and all days of the weeks
and all hours of the day
if I may
only in God’s Way
this is just a true poem on Sunday
God’s Day!
I ask forgiveness for all the things I have done wrong,
covid-19 is not strong
I know God exists in all our Bliss
the Only God Almighty
died on calvary
God had not forsaken Him
nor you all or me
BUT He is in you and me
just keep silent
think of Him
talk to Him
pray to Him
not only on Sunday, Amen
with all God’s Bliss
I am still your evangelist
and all there is!

2. Happy Sunday, Friends

       by Anonymous

I am lazing in bed
composing a little note
with the wind singing in my ear.

No matter whether
you feel the wind, rain, sun or snow
enjoy your Sunday everyone.

3. Happy Sunday

       by Anonymous

You may still be a bit drowsy
But laying on bed is lousy
Little birds are chirping
Church bells are ringing
Wake up, boy
Day is waiting for your joy
To make their day pretty
With your witty
Welcome this day with a candid smile
Have a happy Sunday

Final Thoughts

Sunday is often considered a day of rest and relaxation, a time to unwind and reflect on the week gone by.

Poetry can be a perfect medium to capture the essence of Sundays, as it allows for introspection and contemplation.

From famous works to short rhymes and funny verses, there is a vast range of Sunday poems that can evoke different moods and emotions.

Inspirational Sunday poems can provide a sense of hope and optimism, while happy Sunday poems can bring joy and cheerfulness.

Whether for adults or children, poems for Sunday about morning or evening, there is something for everyone to enjoy and savor.

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